


no glamour to it

by deanwinchesterissaved



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment RPF
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, I jest, M/M, don't taunt ghosts if you don't want to deal with them getting mad, everyone go nuts, though it is a delicate balance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanwinchesterissaved/pseuds/deanwinchesterissaved
Summary: Ryan reads the story, looking up at Shane at intervals, and Shane follows along as best he can. He makes faces and picks up bits along the way, barely remembering to look at the cameras.Time passes, runs, and slows down.The house creaks and groans. Cameras sit on tripods and blink at them.~“Just the wind,” Shane gentles, “we’re the only ones here.”
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Comments: 16
Kudos: 103
Collections: Skeptic Believer Book Club Hallowe'en Fic Exchange 2020





	no glamour to it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makemadej (santamonicayachtclub)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/santamonicayachtclub/gifts).



> Happy slightly late Halloween!
> 
> This is my contribution to Eva, whose writing I absolutely _adore_ to bits. I picked the second prompt cause I already had an idea kicking around my head courtesy of @varying-shades-of-blue.
> 
> Shoutout to Fuzzy and my roomies for help with brainstorming, and Yesi and Jess for helping me sanity check this pile of words. 
> 
> Title from "Cynic" by Noah Kahan
> 
> It's spooky season!

  
It’s for the aesthetic, Ryan had reasoned, and it was a farmhouse with a chimney; it’s made for having controlled fireplace fires. They ask to have the fireplace lit, because of course they do. 

Shane could say Ryan had been a little too excited about this particular shoot, and not even about the spirits. It does something funny to Shane’s chest, every time Ryan’s eyes light up when he talks about the shoot being a house-- _it’s a house,_ _Shane_ \--close enough to everything around it but just far enough. Families lived there. 

Shane just nods and laughs, because he wants to see more of this excitement. There’s been a city and two screens between them for too long, and he’s going to drink in every second of Ryan’s presence he can. 

He tells Ryan he’s focusing on the wrong thing, it’s the orchard, didn’t he say, that’s going to be the centerpiece? Ryan pouts, and Shane delights in seeing that emotion too. 

It starts like this. 

“It looks nothing like the picture,” Ryan says as they make a turn off the main road. 

The dirt driveway grinds beneath their wheels. TJ and the crew are behind them, and Ryan’s peering at the house through the windshield, brow furrowed. 

“Hmm?” Shane looks up from his phone, the signal’s starting to go out. “Wait really?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, still looking. He leans so far up against the wheel that he accidentally honks it. “Jesus Christ! ” He jerks back into his seat, his fingers white on the steering wheel. 

“Careful,” Shane admonishes, but can’t resist getting himself a look through the rain-spattered glass. 

It’s small in the distance, a smear of black paint in the gloom, and he doesn’t know how Ryan’s able to see any sort of detail in this weather. 

Ryan hadn’t let him search up any pictures of the place beforehand, but that’s how it usually goes. It won’t be funny if the skeptic knows every grisly detail— that’s Ryan’s job. Shane’s there to react, and react he does. 

“Looks normal.” Shane looks back down at his phone, the loading signal circling in the center of the screen, but the little car model is definitely headed in the correct direction. “What is it?”

“It’s just,” Ryan pauses, “the shape of it. Something looks _off_.”

“Is this one of your feelings?” Shane grins, and Ryan shoots him an annoyed look. “You know what I think about those.”

“Yeah yeah, shut up.” 

They watch the house grow to its actual size on the horizon in silence, and Shane zips up his jacket, readying himself for the downpour. 

  
-:-  
  


“Nope.” Ryan declares when they step out of the car, wrestling an umbrella into position. Shane has to step close to hear him. “Not shooting outside tonight.”

Shane has to agree. As they hurriedly transfer the equipment up the steps of the farmhouse, they’re all different degrees of soaked, and more than grateful when the owner of the place herds them into the living room, and they all huddle around the fireplace like children. 

Shane runs a hand through his hair, getting the wet feel of it off his skin as best as he can. It’s long enough that it stays where he puts it, and he breathes a sigh of relief. His gaze finds Ryan on the other side of the blazing fireplace, shivering and rubbing his hands together. 

“You okay, bud?” 

Ryan looks up, and gives him a weak smile. “Yeah, I’m good. The schedule might be fucked though, if it doesn’t clear up in an hour.”

He’s still got water on his face. The glow of the fire throws sharp shadows across his features, and in just a t-shirt, he looks leaner, less top-heavy with those ridiculous muscles. Shane lets himself look, but Ryan’s smile hasn’t faltered, so Shane still looks away, wishing it had. 

It would settle him, at least, keep him from wondering useless things. 

The rain doesn’t let up all afternoon, and by the time the moon shows, the fields have been reduced to a muddy swamp. Ryan’s face falls when he takes a tentative step and his foot sinks in with a wet squelch. 

“The tarp’s not going to work for this,” Ryan mutters, glaring daggers down at the mud on his boot. 

“We can stay another day,” Shane bumps Ryan’s shoulder, “see if it’s any better tomorrow, I talked to Katie.”

“That’s… really good news.” Ryan shoves his hands into his pockets, excitement blooming anew as he looks out into the dilapidated orchard. The grass had grown tall and wild in their years of neglect, only a few stray leaves clinging stubbornly to the bare branches. 

“I’ll go unpack the stuff, see if we can get some of the intro done tonight, give ourselves elbow-room later.”

Ryan goes on, strategizing about camera setups and lighting. And it’s mostly for warmth, Shane reasons, as he trails him all the way back to the house, steps close on Ryan’s. 

They have more than enough time here. 

-:-

The crew retreats to the motel eagerly, not wanting to risk getting stranded in this place overnight. Before she leaves, the owner points them to a large bedroom off the second-floor main corridor, a four-poster bed and plain furniture laid out across the room, and informs them with an apologetic smile that it’s the only mattress in the building. 

Ryan thanks her, and he’s still studying the room when Shane comes back from the front door. He hands Ryan the batteries to his GoPro, his sleeve damp from the drizzle. 

“Here’s where the main event went down,” Ryan explains when Shane shoots him a questioning look. “Blood sacrifice and some sort of ritual. No one really knows what the actual curse is, but no one has lived here for years.”

“Spooky,” Shane, murmurs, “‘s’pose you’ll wanna set up cameras here tonight? See they have a thing or two to say, maybe get the curse up and running again?”

“Don’t— say that! Jesus Christ, dude.”

“It was over eighty years ago, Ryan.” 

“Spirits _can_ become more powerful over time,” Ryan retorts, but the look he casts the room is skeptical. “How about you do your thing, and leave me out of the deals you make?”

“Yup— ” Shane pops the ‘p’, grinning. “—got it. Bergmeister’s on the menu tonight folks!” he hollers, his voice echoing back at him from the high ceiling.

The tussle that ensues is put to an end at the stairs, and soon it’s back to business. 

Shanes perches a tripod on the mantelpiece to get a good shot of them in front of the fire. There’s another camera facing them from the side, and Ryan settles down in his own rocking chair, stretching, the taut length of his body lavish against the worn wood. 

“ _Okay_ ,” Ryan sits up, slate in hand, phone with the document pulled up ready on his lap. “You ready?”

Shane nods; there’s the familiar sharp _clack_ , and it’s just like old times. 

Ryan reads the story, looking up at Shane at intervals, and Shane follows along as best he can. He makes faces and picks up bits along the way, barely remembering to look at the cameras.

Time passes, runs, and slows down. 

Shane gentles Ryan with a hand on his shoulder when mother nature makes a noise through the pane windows. They have to redo a take when one of the camera batteries gives out in the middle of one of Ryan’s theories. He throws his head back and laughs when Ryan resorts to unbalancing Shane’s chair to stop him from interjecting. 

It’s gone quiet now, the humidity building in the air again, the moon peeking out from behind the clouds. 

“And just one more dark cherry to top it off,” Ryan’s saying, and Shane refocuses. “There were rumors that William conducted rituals with their victims’ blood, performing witchcraft in the upstairs bedroom in an attempt to better his odds in future transactions. And if the popular tale is to be believed, in the struggle with the police in November of 1967, he had woven his death into the curse he laid down on this house.”

“Did dear William have a pointy hat?” Shane asks, and Ryan laughs. 

-:-

Ryan suggests it.

“There _is_ a mattress this time,” he says, “and I know your back gets fucked up when we sleep on the floor.”

Shane would have agreed, either way. Six months was a long time, even if Obi is excellent company. 

It feels strange when they lay their sleeping bags down on the four-poster, the bare mattress dipping when Shane sits down on the side, patting it with some appreciation. 

They’ve forgone teeth-brushing, as they often did in these places, and Shane looks over his shoulder, mouth tasting like _Peppermint Cobalt_. 

“The focus is dead center, Ryan,” he sets his phone down on the nightstand. He’ll have to charge it in the car tomorrow. “Come sleep, you look like you need it.” 

Ryan squints at the camera one last time, then straightening, he trudges to the bed. “That’s likely,” he mutters, his eyes tired behind his glasses. He’s smiling, though. 

“The _real_ haunting comes tomorrow; that’s one _scary_ field out there,” Shane reminds him, and Ryan snorts, plopping down to sit next to Shane. There should be absolutely nothing endearing about it, really. 

“I swear if you try to sing one of the songs—”

“What?” Shane grins, it’s too easy. “Scared the professor’s gonna get ya? _Oar_ maybe th—”

“I’ll stop you right there,” Ryan laughs, batting a hand at Shane’s face, “I don’t need extra nightmares.”

“Learn and love, Ry, maybe you’ll finally win a trophy.”

They tuck themselves in, and soon it’s just the sound of their breathing, one slightly slower than the other. Five seconds, Shane counts, Ryan’s doing those breathing exercises he told him so much about. In, hold, five out. 

No way in hell Shane’s going to see a therapist. 

“Do you think,” Ryan starts, and Shane waits, but he leaves it there. 

He turns to look, and Ryan’s looking right at him, face turned to the side. It’s almost like one of those jumpscares, except instead of a ghouly ghost it’s just Ryan, bottom lip clamped between his teeth, looking at him with a strange focus. 

“Windows?” Shane asks, and kicks himself for forgetting in the first place. 

“Yeah,” Ryan admits, “a little bit.”

“Okay, uh, scoot.” Shane pushes himself up on the bed, turning so he’s facing Ryan, who’s frowning at him. “Let's switch,” he clarifies, smiling a little, “so the wind doesn’t get ya.”

Ryan’s still looking at him, so Shane pushes himself up to sit on the bed, and makes to clamber over to the window side. _Ryan’s_ side, in the sense that by the time his shuffling has brought him somewhat hovering above the other man, Ryan still hasn’t moved from his spot. 

His eyes are a bit wide though, Shane thinks in that moment of stillness, and wonders if Ryan’s spotted something particularly interesting. 

He is very concerned for Ryan’s physical safety, is the thing. So much so that, preoccupied in the (really quite complex) maneuver of not falling _onto_ Ryan, Shane’s foot promptly misses the bed entirely, and suddenly he’s tumbling. 

Shane’s hand goes swinging wide, something that feels like a thick iron bar catching him across the chest. His breath rushes out of him with an ‘oof!’, and he blinks at the dark floorboards, limbs askew. 

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Shane,” comes Ryan’s voice, right in his ear. 

“Ughh?” Shane rasps, and his outstretched arms flail a little, adrenaline and the dregs of one of his rare urges of chivalry thrumming through his body. He’s slipping a little, Shane notes.

“You— what were you— you almost fell off!” 

He’s definitely in motion again, and yup, that’s one asscheek off the bed. Ryan shifts, and with a huff, hauls him back from the grasp of the monsters under the bed. Ryan sits up so he could look down at Shane, rather accusingly. 

“Uh,” Shane manages, his brain still recovering from its near encounter with the corner of the bedside table. He grins, ‘cause that seems like a safe bet. 

“There were about seven other ways to do that.” Ryan narrows his eyes at him, chest rising and falling after the sudden rush of movement. But he still helps Shane get out of his sleeping bag trap, rearranging fabric and limbs until their breaths even out again, Shane’s hands tucked under his head as a sort of pillow. 

“Better?” He asks, after a while, and gets a hum in reply. 

-:-

The morning is suspiciously bright, the worn curtains no match for the sunlight that spills in, chasing away the shadows that cling to the walls. Even the orchard’s looking less dreary, the overgrown grass looking a little less sallow. 

Ryan pads up to him in a sweater and jeans, fiddling with the Osmo, just as Shane’s pulling on his jacket. His back makes an impressive series of noises at the motion, and Ryan looks up, eyebrows raised.

“So the bed was a _really_ good idea, if that’s what it sounds like on a good day.” He cranes his neck, giving Shane’s back a once-over like he’s assessing its structural integrity through the denim. 

“Just— long week,” Shane says around a yawn, taking the hand-held from Ryan. The light’s doing really flattering things to Ryan’s curls and the hollow of his throat, and sleepily, Shane just looks. 

  
  


-:-

  
  


They’d never considered doing a Weird/Wonderful here, but Shane finds enough interesting things in the thrift shop to rival that Mystic Museum. 

They brought Shane’s Osmo, because some extra footage never hurt anyone, but Shane keeps forgetting about it, laying it down on desks and counters as he and Ryan wandered around. There’s a doll(“look Ryan, it’s Annabelle!”), a lantern that looks like it’s from the sixteenth century, a stunning dagger with a jewel in it, and a couple of taxidermied cheetahs wearing trench coats. 

But really, the most enjoyable part comes when he sees a patch of beautifully etched wood, hunched down over a whole shelf of books on ventriloquism. 

Ryan sees it almost at the same time. “Dude, no,” he starts, but Shane’s already reaching for the ouija board. 

“Look at it, Ryan!” Shane whisper-shouts, looking down at the board after a tricky extraction from the shelf. For a parlor trick, it really is very intricate; the grin of the sun and moon on the corners that almost look kind, and the planchette’s artfully burned edges, hints of coal across it like it had been hurled into a fire. He holds it in front of his face, so just his eyes are visible, and waggles his eyebrows. “It’s a beaut, you gotta admit.”

“Don’t— stop that—” 

Shane can see Ryan’s nose scrunch up above the edge of the mask, so he doubles down. He lifts his eyebrows one, then the other, slipping in a wink here and there until, in a surge of movement, there’s Ryan's hands in his face, and that’s his thumbs pressing down onto Shane’s eyebrows, making them stay still. 

“No stop the waggly— _no_ ,” Ryan scolds, and his face is rather close. Shane can see _his_ coughed-on eyebrows and the smile lines around his eyes. “We’re in _public._ ” 

Beside them, comes a voice, “Nice eye!”

It’s the cashier, wearing a jacket that bears the logo of the store, a name tag affixed to his lapel. David, Shane reads, squinting a little. The man glances up at Ryan’s raised hands, his expression wavering into confusion for a moment, before fixing his eyes on the board, beaming at it. “Was hoping for someone to spot it.”

Ryan takes his hands back, turning his full attention to the man. Shane gives the board a heft, turning it around a little so he has something to look at that isn’t Ryan’s jaw, peeking out from under his mask. “Looks like it’s got quite a few years on it.” 

The man nods, and Shane watches Ryan’s eyes light up in fear tinted curiosity. “An antique, that one. We got it off the Mortons two streets down a couple of years ago, it’s been in their house since the thirties.” He leans in, raising an eyebrow—Shane doesn’t see Ryan taking an issue with _that_ — “Story has it that that board right there had something to do with the line of mediums in that family for decades.”

“Any ghost contacts?” Ryan presses. “Spirits?”

“Oh definitely,” David nods again, and honestly Shane can’t tell much more from just his eyes. A real obstruction of mild greetings these days. He can’t even awkwardly smile at the people he sees on his runs.

“It’s probably seen the most spiritual activity of all the things in this store, and there are _so many spirits here._ ” He says the last part so meaningfully, like he knows those words mean something to the two of them. Maybe he’s a fan, Shane thinks, and recoils internally. 

“Activity, you say.” Shane shifts the board in his hands so he can tap on his chin, and Ryan’s eyes snap back towards him, like he already knows what Shane’s trying to do. “Can it interact with spellwork? Curses and such?” 

If David is surprised, his mask hides it well. “Uh, sure. I mean, I’m no expert, but you can probably make contact with the person who did the spell, if you really want to.” 

Ryan’s looking at him with wide eyes, more excited than truly alarmed. Shane turns back to the cashier, and pulls out his most earnest voice. “Can we borrow this?”

-:-

“Are we really going to try it?” Ryan asks. 

The board’s got its own spot on the park bench, wrapped up a bit ‘so you don’t pick up stray energies’ and nestled into a giant paper bag. 

“Why not?” Shane says around a bite of cream puff. It’s really quite good, and they’ve remembered to hold the camera upright this time. He pitches his voice down in his typical bad impression, “ _story has it_ there’s a spell, and so we gotta poke it dude, that’s what we do.”

“That’s what _you_ do,” Ryan grumbles, sipping at his coffee, “and then rope me into the stupid taunts.”

“Gotta show the spirits who’s boss, right?” 

There’s still a slight crease in Ryan’s brow, but he’s at least mildly concerned at all these places, Shane thinks, it’s part of the narrative. 

-:-

Mark follows them in a second car an hour before sunset, and with the sky clear, they’ve got a much better view of the place. Ryan’s absorbed himself in rereading the script, hunched in the passenger seat, and Shane taps him on the shoulder when he pulls to a stop. 

“Don’t forget our new team member,” Shane reminds him, and Ryan throws him a half-hearted glare, and reaches into the backseat. 

-:-

“We’re two guys; you’ve killed plenty of guys haven’t you?” Shane says to the night air, crisp against his skin, riding high on the frightened exhilaration Ryan’s shaking with. He stomps his foot, hears the dull thud of damp dirt somewhere below the waist high grass. “Buried them right here in this orchard didn’t ya, plenty of room for two more, wouldn’t you say?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan mutters, scanning around, night vision cam strapped to his chest. 

Shane remembers helping him, his fingertips glancing off the thick jacket Ryan’s wrapped himself in. 

“We’re just out here, all in the open,” he hollers, breath misting, “it’d be pretty baller if you just attacked us right abo— oh they’re probably wimps, aren’t they? Hey, hey, Ryan,” Shane takes a step towards him, lets his legs carry him a liberal distance, so they’re standing close. He brings one gloved hand up to his mouth for a loud whisper, “I don’t think ghosts exist, I’m going to go inside now and you can keep, uh, bein’ out here.”

“You are terrible at this.” 

“You think they bought it?” Shane keeps up the whisper, and lucky him, gets one delighted moment to gloat before something catches at his foot, and his whole body goes pitching straight into the sea of grass. 

Ryan’s laugh rings loud and true in the clear night. 

It’s a good moment to remember. 

-:-

The board sits in the old house, its color a shade lighter than the worn tabletop in the candlelight. 

They try a seance again (“I swear this is not from wikihow Shane, it’s a _legit,_ respected site—”) and Ryan’s hands are steady in his, their joined arms encircling the flame dancing atop the taper. 

The house creaks and groans. Cameras sit on tripods and blink at them. 

“Nicholas and Will White,” Ryan is saying, the spirit box is blasting, and they’re not holding hands anymore. Shane blinks, refocusing. “Both of you lived here and ran your _operation_ , do you have anything you’d like to say to us? Any final, uh, mic drop that you didn’t get to say before you left?”

“Anyone you wish you’d murked?” Shane pipes up, and Ryan looks to him with a nervous tip of his lips, expectant. “Any notable kills you’d like to share the deets on?” 

“Here we go.”

“Hey!” Shane leans in towards Ryan suddenly, and grins when Ryan jerks back, and smiles that half annoyed smile of his. “You started this, when you brought that box of yours.”

“I sure did,” Ryan grins, candlelight warm in his eyes, “and really, you should be thanking me, I let you bring the creepy ouija board.” 

“Don’t listen to him,” Shane mock whispers, giving the scorched planchette a little pat. “He’s just jealous I like you more.”

-:-

“What if we didn’t close it?” 

“What?”

“The board, Ryan. If we leave it without saying goodbye to the spirits, maybe they’ll finally be pissed enough to come haunt us.”

-:-

It’s tipping two when Ryan splays himself across the two sleeping bags, rubbing at his eyes with a content sigh. The wind has picked up again, pressing in on the walls at intervals, like the whole house is taking a breath. 

Shane gazes down at Ryan, his own eyes twinging at every blink. He finds himself smiling. “Good shoot?”

“Good, good footage,” Ryan mumbles, one arm thrown over his face. “Bet I’ll be able to clean some of those words up once I get back to my laptop.”

“It’s a stunning place,” Shane admits, “the scenery is the only real selling point about it, though.”

“You just wait, I’ll poll the whole office if I have to,” Ryan bats at him, and it would be so easy, to just catch Ryan’s hand with his own, and hold on. “I’m gonna come out on the winning side, by a landslide.”

“Betcha you won’t.”

“Oh, you wanna bet?” Ryan rights himself on the mattress, the sleeping bag rustling with the movement. “How about if I win, you admit ghosts are real and actually listen to me when I tell you not to touch cursed objects?”

“Nothing’s cursed,” Shane argues. He sets his phone on the floor and flops onto the bed, kicking off his shoes. “And that’s not what you really want.”

“Are you kidding? Getting you to say that is, like, one of my life goals, like, majorly.”

“Well.” Shane turns his head a little, stares out at a point slightly above Ryan’s eyes, oh hey that’s the doorway right there. “Wouldn’t be much of a skeptic-believer dynamic anymore would it? That’d be it, great big mystery solved. Shane was wrong, the end.”

“It wouldn’t really, though,” Ryan’s voice is quiet. “Unsolved sure, but we can always do other stuff, branch out. Play with folklore and things, you know.”

He says it so casually, like putting a period on a three year project is just that easy, like he’s said this to himself before. And he must have, over and over again until he stopped feeling the sting of it. 

“I dunno,” Ryan continues, “but there are things that we could do. Possibilities, you know, wasn’t that the, uh, purpose of this whole company thing?”

Ryan’s voice reverberates in his chest, and Shane can feel each click of Ryan’s throat.

There is just something different, about lying down close. He feels Ryan’s presence so acutely, senses the rise and fall of Ryan’s chest beside him, the gap that separates their sleeping bags. 

The walls lean in with the wind, shattered moonlight shifts and rolls on the window panes. 

The realization comes suddenly, that Ryan is expecting a reply from him. So Shane makes one of those noncommittal sounds, his gut twisting like he’s cheated Ryan of something. 

There’s no accusation in the way Ryan’s looking at him, now. He’d fully turned to face Shane at some point, the corners of his eyes soft, wearing a look that he can’t quite decipher. 

Deja vu, Shane thinks, mismatching in the brain.

Ryan’s looking at him with that look he levels at nightvision cam footage and ghost reports, trying to pick out the real from the carefully crafted fanfare and static. Ryan’s jaw is set, so he’s reached a verdict, then. 

Shane hopes it’s not a bad one.

It would be mighty awkward for Ryan to decide he did not want to deal with Shane’s bullshit anym— oh hey Ryan’s leaning in, closer, and then some more. And then Ryan’s kissing him. 

It’s quick, and then it’s done. Ryan draws back, and they’re caught in a moment of wide eyes and bated breath. 

Time flows slow, fast, ever the same. 

“What are you doing?” Shane hears himself ask, quiet, though the whole of his chest just wants Ryan to lean in again, for this to last a little longer. 

“I don’t know,” Ryan murmurs against Shane’s lips, and it’s dizzying to look into his eyes, so close. “Should I stop?”

 _Don’t ask me_ , Shane wants to say, _don’t let me be part of this_. It’s fucking selfish, he knows, but if this goes sideways, some sick sense of self-preservation in him wants nothing to do with the decisions along the way. 

But Ryan _is_ asking him, is looking right at him in the dark, across an inch of space. 

“No,” he breathes, and watches Ryan’s eyes shift into something happier, and leans in, pressing a whispered “please don’t” into Ryan’s mouth. 

And they’re melting into each other, Ryan’s hand reaching to cup his jaw, the slow press of lips and tongue, no hurry. It’s just, happening, gently. 

It’s easy. 

When Shane finally pulls back, Ryan’s eyes are still closed. There’s a second when Shane just watches, then Ryan breathes out a little sigh, and one corner of his mouth quirks up. His eyes are all lit up when he looks at Shane. 

“Hi,” he breathes, and it’s so very casual, Ryan’s voice soft in a way Shane’s not used to, that he stares. 

He stares and stares until all he sees is Ryan, the slight smile gleaming eyes and his full heart, and by then it’s too late, and there’s a break in his voice. “Oh, uh, hello.” The touch of Ryan’s hand against his jaw throwing him in limbo and grounding him to earth, the here and now, with _him._

“What, um,” Ryan whispers, a little nervous looking, “what do you think, you big dork?”

It really is not the place Shane had thought he’d be doing this, in the year of our lord 2020, and this has got to be one of the peaks of this year. “I think,” he speaks slowly, making himself meet Ryan’s eyes, “you should do that again.”

The smile Ryan flashes before their lips meet again warms his whole chest, and then they’re both reaching for each other, Shane reaching around Ryan’s broad shoulders so his hands can tangle in his hair, and it really is as soft as it had looked. 

Ryan makes a soft noise into the kiss when Shane pulls on the strands a little, and it’s exhilarating, being the one to coax a sound like that out of him. The brush of Ryan’s stubble against his lips sends a shiver through him, and he moans softly, turning his head slightly so he can mouth along Ryan’s jaw, chasing the electric feeling as Ryan breathes heavily in his ear. 

“ _Finally,_ ” Ryan mutters when Shane buries his face in his shoulder, his voice thick like he’s holding back tears. “God, I thought we’d never, not after the drunk shoot, you did _nothing_ , then.”

“I was super drunk,” Shane argues, still hugging Ryan, “Steven’s drinks got some punch to ‘em.”

“Point,” Ryan concedes, gasping when Shane nips at the skin right under his jaw, leaving little red marks that should be gone by morning.

“This okay?” he nips at Ryan’s earlobe, asking belatedly. 

He almost laughs when Ryan nods immediately, almost knocking his jaw into Shane’s head. His arms tighten around Shane, keeping him close. “Yeah, so okay.”

“Not so scared anymore, huh?” Shane teases, he can’t help himself. “Maybe next time you get spooked I can kiss it away.”

“Kiss it and make it better? Sounds good to me,” Ryan murmurs, pulling back a little so he can lean his forehead against Shane’s, eyelids drooping, a slight smile to his lips. “I can’t believe, _here,_ of all places.”

The house creaks as if it has taken offense. Ryan jumps, and almost headbutts Shane. “Sorry, sorry.”

“Just the wind,” Shane gentles, leaning in to nudge Ryan’s nose with his, settling down next to him, “we’re the only ones here.”

  
  


-:-

  
  


There’s a crackle, a pop. Ryan frowns, there’s something tickling his nose. He curls into himself instinctively, but there’s a warm body in the way. 

It’s been too long, and that must be why he startles at the sensation, and Shane makes a noise beside him, still fast asleep. Ryan stares at the hair on the nape of Shane’s neck, glares even, accusingly. 

But Ryan’s warm, and this is all rather nice. He lies there and breathes, relishing the feel of Shane’s body pressed close against his through the sleeping bags. He hopes he’ll wake up first, so he can see Shane like this in the morning light, maybe he can even kiss him to wake him up, morning breath be damned, maybe— 

A flicker of orange flashes at the edge of his vision, and then— _pop._

That’s not a house noise. Ryan whips his head around towards it, snatches his glasses from the mattress and squints at the doorway, and then— _pop, crackle._

Smoke, curling lazily through the doorway and drifting up to the ceiling. 

_Fire._

He reaches for Shane’s shoulder, shakes it, “Sha—” the air gets caught in his throat. Ryan sits up and pushes at Shane again, _shoves_ really, and the other man wakes with a half grunt. 

“Shane, get up, I think— fuck, I think something’s on fire.” He can hear the panic in his own voice, but he can’t bring himself to mind. 

“Fire?” Shane starts, blinking at him with growing realization. He wrestles an elbow beneath himself, half restricted by the sleeping bag. “What do you— we didn’t— _fire?_ ”

The floorboards catch at his skin when Ryan half falls onto his feet, keeping his eyes on the doorway. Is the smoke thicker now?

It takes him one unsteady step before he turns back, finding Shane’s hand in the dark and gripping tight. “C’mon,” he urges, the ‘bzzzip’ of the sleeping bag zipper sharp in his ears as Shane climbs out. “We have to go look, put it out or-or something.”

Ryan’s shivering again, but he stumbles toward the door, Shane in tow, the scent of a campfire built wrong growing stronger with each step. The overhead light flickers on when he flips the switch.

“Fire— we need uh, extinguisher,” Shane mutters, glancing about. “There’s gotta be one here, every building has one—” 

But the walls are bare, and they’ve poked through enough closets throughout the shoot to know there isn’t one. Before they clear that hallway, there’s a prickling at the back of his mind, a subtle shift in reality. Bracing, Ryan allows himself one last glance over his shoulder, but it’s just pitch dark. 

Their flashlights blink to life in their hands; bleached, blinding white washing across the hallway as they run, every doorway carving the light out in yawning black patches. 

They’re nearing the last corner to the living room, and with a lurch in his stomach, Ryan sees light — yellow and orange flickers, throwing sharp shadows onto the opposing wall. _A fire that bright_ , he can’t stop the shudder that tears through him, they should be feeling the heat by now, should be driven back by it. 

Their steps thunder across the worn wood boards, closing in, turning, and— and Ryan skids to a stop, his shoulder slamming into solid wood, hard. Behind him, Shane almost crashes into him in his dazed scanning, but Ryan doesn’t mind that part, really. It’s cold in the hallway, and Shane’s body is warm against his. 

But there definitely wasn’t a wall here five seconds ago. 

Ryan reaches blindly, and finds Shane’s side in the semi-darkness. “There—I don’t—”

Walls can’t move, Ryan tells himself, they just… can’t. 

“That’s the… living room,” Shane says, bewildered, he looks around, “but— the fire? Where’d the light go?”

And the light _is_ gone. The hallway is dark, save for their flashlights. 

The hallway that no longer _leads_ anywhere. 

_Sizzle, pop—_ like a switch, there’s the yellow-orange flickering again, right at the other end of the hallway. 

From the way they’d just come. 

Fear digs its claws in his stomach, and he just stares at the light on the opposite wall, his limbs numb.

“It’s not real, it can’t be, we were just _there._ ” There’s a strain in Shane’s voice. He turns, frantically, desperately pressing his palm flat against the wall in their way, worn and old like it’s been there for decades. “No, no, no, this is the way out, no.”

Before Ryan can even react, Shane pulls his hand back and slams his fist into the solid wood point-blank. And as much as his eyes told him otherwise, Ryan had half expected Shane’s hand to go through the wall, finding nothing but air, as if somehow Shane’s sheer disbelief would break them out of this impossible path.

But then Shane’s shouting a hollow cry of frustration and pain, clutching his fist to his chest, and there’s crimson welling up at the scrapes at his knuckles. He stares at where there’s barely a dent in the wood. 

The wall stands, just as it had. 

A high-pitched male laugh sounds deep in the house, shrill and manic. 

“We need to go.” Ryan almost doesn’t hear himself when he says it, reaching out to grasp Shane’s arm and pulling him towards the other end of the hallway, where the firelight danced. Cutting sharp glances at Shane, Ryan worries, but the air escapes his lips in panted breaths as they dash, and he doesn’t get to ask.

There’s a glazed look to Shane’s eyes, and Ryan can’t— won’t think about what’s going on in that head of his, what frameworks may be breaking. 

The orange flickers are bright on the wall, like there’s a bonfire right around the corner, but the moment they round the corner, it winks out. The corridor is open, so Ryan barrels down it, tracing his path backward. The blanched white of the flashlights skates across the walls, unsteady in their hands. 

A lick of orange appears ahead, and Ryan realizes with a flash, _guiding_ them. 

Maybe if they could just get back to their room, Ryan can get to his holy water, and he can use it to--to— 

But what use was a little bottle of holy water against a whole house?

A deep rumble starts beneath their feet, the scrape and grind of wood against each other growing louder and louder. A crash rocks through the house, the crackle of flames swelling with a sudden intensity with the soft tinkle of breaking glass. 

Has the living room blown in? Ryan doesn’t let himself consider it, focusing on the air that burns in his chest, and Shane’s panted breaths behind him. Windows, they can get out that way, smash them if they must. 

When he staggers to a stop at the corridor at the base of the stairs, the flickering firelight has shifted once again, and Ryan watches as the last of it darts below a closed door. It’s the room they were sleeping in, and they rush to it. 

Shane hunches over himself, panting, bracing his hands against his knees. “What’s— fuck, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan reaches for the door handle, but his fingertips only brush against smooth wood. He reaches again, but there’s nothing there. If not for the sliver of light below the panels, Ryan realizes with a twist in his gut, he would never have been able to tell it from the wall. 

He turns, gripping onto Shane’s shoulders. “Shane, hey look at me.” The hallway stretches dark ahead of them and behind, and something shimmers in the blackness, but Ryan ignores it, clasping one hand to Shane’s face. “We need to get out of here, and it’s through that door—wall—whatever the fuck it is, but you have to stay with me, alright?” Then, sharper, “Shane, I need you to _focus._ ”

Shane blinks, and relief rushes through Ryan when he presses his lips together in a thin line, nodding shakily. “Okay. I’m— I’ll do whatever you need.”

Something moves in the corner of his eye, _shifts_ in the darkness. Ryan whips his head around so fast he cracks his neck, just in time to see the change again at the far end of the hallway. As he watches, frozen to the spot, the walls distort, his very vision of them twisting along crooked lines as pressure builds in the air. 

Ryan backs toward the door, his voice cracking. “Are you—?”

“Yeah,” Shane answers, “yeah, I see it too.”

The pressure builds and builds, and Ryan can feel it in his ears, pressing in on him until—

In a split second, so fast that his brain barely understands what he sees, the walls explode inward, space folding in on itself with terrifying force. There’s a sickening _crunch_ , and the last ten feet of the hallway is no more. 

“Oh, God,” Shane breathes, but Ryan is still staring. Where the last few doors were, now it’s just… darkness. Darkness that now reaches into the next doorway, bending the space—

“Ryan—” It’s Shane, his fingers digging into Ryan’s shoulder. “Help me,” is all he says, and that’s enough to propel Ryan into action. 

“On three?”

They brace themselves, and slam their shoulders into the door-wall once, twice, three times— there’s a second deafening _crunch,_ and Ryan feels sick. On the next shove, something shifts inside his shoulder, and he groans through his teeth. 

Shane’s face, now mostly braced in concentration, the panic shoved down somewhere inside him, is maybe the best part that he can pick out of this impossible trap, and maybe it should be the worst part. Maybe if he hadn’t chosen this place, hadn’t decided to come on this date, hadn’t let Shane convince him to leave the goddamn Ouija board open—maybe they would not be here, trying to break through solid wood in a collapsing hallway. 

Ryan can feel his heart pounding in his chest, and at this point, it really is more of a bother than anything. A third crunch booms from the other end of the hallway, they go for the next shove, and meet nothing but air. Flailing, they tumble into the room, striking the ground hard from the momentum of the push. 

Scrambling to his feet, Ryan glances back, and there’s only the wall, no sign of the doorway they’d gone through. Silence falls, and it’s only the wind at the window and their panting breaths. Looking up, the overhead light has shut off, the single lightbulb has gone from its perch on the ceiling. 

Their sleeping bags sat at the foot of the bed, folded up neatly. 

Out, Ryan reminds himself.

“C’mon—” he offers a hand to Shane, and pulls him up. “we gotta find a way to get out of here.”

The wind whips into the room when he hauls open the window, and Ryan shivers. Beyond the narrow windowsill, the sky’s lightening up a little, and he can make out the dirt path that leads back towards the main street. Looking down, the high weeds thin near the base of the house, nothing but the half-frozen ground under a twenty-foot drop. 

The sleeping bags are knotted together, and it’s been all but a few minutes before they’re both standing by the window, the makeshift rope clutched in Ryan’s hand.

The deep groan of wood starts again, and Ryan jerks his head around, but nothing seems to be changing in the room. 

“You’re going first, I’ll lower you down,” he says. Shane opens his mouth, but Ryan rushes on, speaking with every ounce of confidence he can muster. “There’s nothing to tie it to, and if you jump you’ll just break a leg. Just go, now, I’ll be right behind you.”

Shane clenches his jaw, and with a quick step, he grasps Ryan’s wrist. “Right behind me,” he repeats, his voice strained, an intensity in his eyes that Ryan’s never seen before. “You better be, _please._ ”

Ryan nods. “I will.”

He secures the fabric around Shane’s grip, his chest tightening as he helps Shane climb onto the windowsill and then over. “Go, be careful,” he urges. The wind scrapes against his skin, and bracing his shoulder on the wall, Ryan passes the makeshift rope hand over hand, keeping a close eye on Shane as he descends. 

Shane drops the last few feet, landing in a crouch. The creak of wood sounds closer now, and Ryan straps their camera bag to his shoulder and clambers onto the sill, turning so he can face the room. 

“Ryan?” Shane calls, a waver in his voice that freezes Ryan in his tracks, “I think—”

But Ryan doesn’t find out what Shane had seen. Suddenly, as he hangs onto the narrow ledge by his fingers, the whole house shudders beneath him, a loud resounding _crack_ tearing through the air. 

Ryan barely has time to let go before the top window pane comes slamming down, and then he’s falling, the ground rushing toward him in a flash, the shattered glass following close behind. He somehow gets his feet underneath him when he strikes the damp earth, crying out when some shards find their target, pain shooting up from his ankle and reverberates through him. 

“Ryan!” 

Shane’s there next to him, blood welling from a cut on his face, pulling him up, steadying him when Ryan tries to stand and a spike of pain from his ankle almost sends him back down onto the ground. 

“I’ve got you, we’re out, we made it, _breathe,_ Ryan.” 

They find the source of the crack a moment later when, turning, what faced them was not the flat plains, but a ten foot cascade of torn earth, stretching all the way across the front of the house. The house has sunk, impossibly, a minefield of shattered glass in an arc around the walls. 

Finally unmoving, silent. 

  
  


They shuffle, they clamber and crawl, up the sharp incline and then more, glass cutting into their skin and dirt catching on their clothes. 

And they wait. 

-:-  
  


The watery morning sun finds them first, crouched together on the side of the dirt road, shaking with cold and exhaustion. 

Then comes the grind of tires, and TJ’s rushing at them before the car’s even fully stopped. Devon yells from the driver seat. There’s a sudden swarm of people, the crew, their friends, crowding around where they’re half sat against a tree, worrying at their sorry appearances. 

TJ looks back at the house, half-collapsed on itself, impressed ten feet into the half-frozen earth. 

“What the fuck?” he exclaims, raking through his hair. 

None of them have an answer for him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Block and Uni got a bit in the way for a while, but this last weekend spent crazy writing was the best two all-nighters I've pulled my entire life. Leave a thought? I'm on [hellsite](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/deathfrisbeeinthetardis) too, sometimes.


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